


A Woman In His Life

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-13
Updated: 2006-03-12
Packaged: 2018-08-16 04:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 22,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8087875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Trip faces some changes as he and T'Pol begin a relationship in the Expanse. (04/29/2004)





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

He stands looking at the closed door with hesitation and more than a little trepidation.

It seems like a lifetime since he stood here last.

Stood here last—the memory of finding her like that. When he lifted her into his arms, she weighed no more than a child. Despite her height, her frame is petite. She usually holds herself so rigidly, so stoically that she seems bigger—an easy match for his six foot two inches. But unconscious, she seemed so much smaller, so very vulnerable.

Seeing her like that—as a woman, simply a defenseless woman—struck a cord within him that resonated still. Just like Lizzie. Once his brain made the connection, there was no going back. Just like Lizzie—a woman in his life.

When had she become that—a woman in his life? And like Lizzie, she too could be vulnerable—gone in an instant, struck down by this new, horrible foe.

His connection with her had eased the bleakness of his grief. And now—and now, this.

He tried to put it together for himself like one would think about a reaction in physics. He was alone and in such terrible pain. He had never known anything like it before. Hell, he felt worse than dead—would have rather been dead except for the fact that he needed to be alive to seek revenge. And he would get revenge.

Then Phlox had passed him off to T'Pol. That first visit was now a blur. He remembered that he felt better afterwards—kind of embarrassed by the whole thing but better. She was so nonchalant about the whole thing that he had pretty much gotten over being embarrassed.

He hated to admit it but he had begun to actually look forward to their little sessions. Despite her aloofness, she had this way of focusing on you like a laser beam. She made you feel like she was listening to you even when you didn't realize you were talking. Somehow, the words he used to describe her had changed. Now she was delicate, vulnerable, and rare.

OK, Trip, he thinks to himself—man grieves, man wants revenge, man needs to sleep as not to self-destruct so he can get said revenge hence he comes to the woman. Woman helps man with the sleep thing and in turn with the grief thing. Man can finally string a sentence together, man is—is what? Grateful to the woman, indebted? What? This is where the equation gets sticky.

When Malcolm had said something to him about spotting him coming out of T'Pol's quarters—he had pretty much decided that he was going to back off. That this kind of talk would be unseemly to her but that decision had been a lifetime ago. Before her comment that what they did was not anyone's concern, before she had made plans with him even after working on that damned alloy for hours on end and before he found her on the floor of her quarters hardly breathing.

Taking a deep breath, he pushes the comm button.


	2. To Tremble

The familiar sound of the comm link surprises her—still another lingering effect of the attack no doubt.

"Come in" she responds hoping that her voice does not betray her.

He enters to find her, back turned, kneeling beside the low table that holds several lit candles. She rises gracefully in response to his presence.

Even though she is holding herself as rigidly as always, he can't help but think of a wounded bird when he looks at her. Something around her almond eyes seems strained. As her gaze finds him he can't fight the sense that she is somehow reaching out to him for help even though she has not said a word.

As he is wrestling with the incongruent messages of her typical stance and the perception that she is somehow still hurt from the earlier attack, she speaks. As usual, she uses only the words necessary to communicate her point.

"Commander." The inflection in her voice sounding his title out like a question.

With a subtle nod, he steps forward, closer to her than he would have dared just weeks ago. "T'Pol—are you alright, honey? That was quite a jolt you took."

The moment the words are out of mouth, he castrates himself over how foolish they must sound to her delicate ears. And—and, he called her 'honey.' Oh God, what has he been reduced to?

Something in the sound of his voice, his silly endearment, his honest concern—something causes her body to physically tremble.

The feeling brings to mind a long forgotten memory from childhood. She had fallen and injured both of her knees as children will. Her father had found her sobbing on the ground. He had taken her firmly by the shoulders and patiently told her that at four years of age, it was time for her to endure the minor pain without such a display. Striving ever to please, she had struggled to stop her tears until she sat quietly trembling—none the less afraid or hurt but enduring quietly, stoically as her father expected.

She feels as if she is that child again, stripped of her many years of Vulcan discipline, wanting nothing more than to cry out her pain rather than swallow it. Taking a deep breath, she attempts to ready herself to reassure him to she is fine. Perhaps the words will make it so?

Before she can answer, the comm link sounds. "T'Pol? Archer. I apologize for the interruption after the day you've had but I think you need to hear this transmission." He pauses for a minute before he adds, "I think it's Vulcan."


	3. Mine

She takes a deep breath as she lights the candles around her room. Closing her eyes, she seeks to center herself. He will be here soon. He is always prompt. She values the trait. For all of his bravado, he values structure too. He is dependable.

There is a stray thought. Her teaching tells her there are no stray thoughts. Looking within, she finds that yes, indeed, she finds him dependable. Dependable to do his best, to come through for his ship, for his friends, and yes for her.

It is perplexing that she finds herself coming to trust him so. It was not so long ago that he seemed to typify everything impetuous about the human race. But now, he is not so. He is complex, much more so than she first thought. Like his peaches, deceptively simple—until you delve into them and find them something all together new. All together sweet and appealing.

She shakes her head. Sweet? Appealing? The attack must have shaken her more than she first thought.

When the doctor first approached her about attempting to relieve some of the Commander Tucker's stress through Vulcan Neuropressure, she had been skeptical at best.

First of all, it was highly unusual for someone other than a trained practitioner to practice the technique on anyone other than a mate or a child. Any activity or pursuit involving touch in the Vulcan society is not taken lightly. And while Dr. Phlox had researched the technique's benefits thoroughly, he had not examined the cultural morays surrounding the practice.

For an unattached woman to be applying the science on another would be reason for talk. And here she is—finding herself quite the outsider on several counts. When Phlox first broached the subject with her, she had thought why not? She had already experienced an unwanted meld, broken her engagement and resigned her commission with the Council on Vulcan to stay on Enterprise—she reasoned that offering possible relief to a fellow officer was not an issue to debate for propriety's sake.

And now—she must admit she had gained some insight into why her people did not bestow the benefits of this technique indiscriminately as some sort of attachment seemed to stem from the sharing of the touch, something almost embarrassingly primal.

When she had first encountered sickbay after the alien attack, her first thought had been an unbidden and possessive 'mine'. She reasoned that this was simply a reaction to the assault, which had left her feeling raw and vulnerable.

And still—still, she listens to the steady beat of the word even now as she waits for him—

Mine Mine Mine


	4. No Satisfaction

Bam. Bam. He has been hitting this punching bag for the past hour to no satisfaction. He needs to hurt something, someone. Too bad that little spy isn't still on the ship. Whoa now, Trip, you aren't thinkin' about beatin' a woman to a bloody pulp. Are you?

The answer comes back a little less than settling—well, yes. It doesn't matter a hill of beans what the damn buggers look like—fat, thin, blue, purple, male or female—he will kill them. He will not hesitate. He will do whatever necessary to stop this threat. These damned Xindi will feel it where it hurts. And they will pay. Pay for Lizzie and a million like her. They will pay for T'Pol and for what this infernal corner of space has done to her.

T'Pol. At the though of her, lying in sickbay for the second time in so many weeks, so small, so ravaged by these damn anomalies. Hell, she was half out of her mind when he last saw her. Phlox thought it would be days before she was well enough to leave sickbay.

This thought brings about another selfish, boorish tangent to his thinking. It will be days before he will have a chance to be alone with her. And even then will she even feel like—picking up where they left off. The idea that he would be denied access to her, to her company, her touch—it is intolerable.

A part of his brain registers that this is nuts. Sure, he doesn't want T'Pol to be hurt but to feel this way because she's not up to giving him a damn back rub—it's ludicrous. Still, anger and frustration pump through him at an astonishing rate as he continues to attack the object in front of him.

* * *

Disjointed thoughts continue to assault her subconscious. Memories of childhood, lectures on emotional control, the summer of her thirteenth year when she endured the ancient rituals of emotional maturity, the meld last year, the recent attack—it was as if she surfed from emotionally laden event to emotionally laden event without cease. Each memory seems to taunt her.

If she were awake and alert, she would see Dr. Phlox monitoring her vitals, watching her stress signs climb again and again but she is not awake. She is in an emotional maze. She recalls Charles Tucker telling her about something called a "Fun House" from his childhood where one would walk through a hall of mirrors that distorted one's image. Surely this is where she is.

* * *

Dr. Phlox is less than pleased by her latest vitals. While he hates to keep her under he sees no choice at the moment not until she calms. He begins to prepare an additional sedative for the night. He is interrupted by the whirling sound of the main entry doors opening.

"Phlox?" a distinctive male voice inquires.

"In here, Commander Tucker." He calls out as he comes from the lab. "What can I do for you? A hypospray perhaps? I anticipated that the past few days' events may have escalated your sleeplessness."

Looking a bit sheepish but determined to continue, he forges ahead. "Ahh actually no, Doc. I was wonderin'—I was wonderin' if I could see T'Pol. That's all."

Catching a look on the Doc's face that he can't quite read, he quickly begins to back off, "I mean, I was just wonderin' how she was. She's had one hell of a time—" His voice trails off as he runs out of explanations—for Phlox, for himself.

Just then Phlox gets one of those 'know all' looks on his face, as he responds, "As have you, Commander."

Never much for introspection, Trip shrugs off the comment and begins to turn with the intention of retreating. He doesn't get all the way around before the Doc speaks again. "On the contrary, do come in. Do come see her. Speak to her."

"She's awake?" he asks, his voice displaying his attachment.

"Ahh no, but do speak to her. She very well may be able to hear you. There are many studies supporting the positive effect of familiar voices on those in comatose states. You may do her some good."

As Charles Tucker passes by him, wasting no pleasantries before seeing T'Pol, Phlox whispers to himself, "it may do you some good as well."


	5. Waltzing

He wishes beyond all else that he could turn off this infernal machine. The incessant beeping is driving him mad. For a moment he indulges in the fantasy of ripping it from its power relay.

Once Lizzie had come to visit him when he was working and had asked how he stood all of the various beeps and buzzes from the diagnostic equipment. She proclaimed that the only sound that she wanted to be confronted with on a daily basis was the sound of the sea.

Oh Lizzie—never in a million years—

Oh T'Pol—never in a million years—

He muses. He considers the twists and turns of his life. God, you cold lose yourself just wondering how it had all come to this point.

No, he corrects himself. He knows precisely how he came to this point—the Xindi—plain and simple.

The anger, the violence, the sheer hatred pumping through him strengthens him as nothing else.

He will live.

She will live.

T'Pol will live. She must.

He will not lose this woman. Period. She will live because Lizzie cannot. Solemn T'Pol, as still as Lizzie was antimated, must live. Both so precious in their own way, both able to touch him in ways no other could even begin.

A soft cough rouses him from his thoughts and he looks up to find Phlox, head tilted, considering him like he's tryin' to decide if he needs to take an extended shore leave—in a padded cell.

"Commander Tucker, I thought it was your intention to talk to her. I've not heard a single word in well over an hour. Come, let me give you're a hypospray. You can come back tomorrow."

Trip responds to the Doctor's suggestion with a mixture of embarrassment, fatigue and resignation. "Sure thing, Doc, ten more minutes?"

"As you wish." Phlox smiles to himself as he sees that T'Pol's vitals seem to have begun to stabilize.

* * *

Assembling himself after the Doc's departure, he focuses on T'Pol versus his own ruminations.

He thinks back to what she has taught him. One particular exercise stands out for one reason or another. What had she said? That your mind does not make random mistakes?

Before he can think through his intent, he is standing over to her. Taking three fingers from each hand, he touches her corresponding temples. He increases the pressure one finger at a time until a repetitive rhythm of sorts has begun. Kind of a like a waltz—1,2,3—1,2,3.

Hell, he had no clue what he was doing. Maybe something about the rhythm would be familiar to her, draw her out. He had to do something and such as it is, this is it!

* * *

She is caught in this cycle of emotional events—as if these events have been imprinted on her brain—repressed for just this occasion.

She is eight. Her grandmother has just died. She had been eager to please the regal lady and had enjoyed walking through the gardens with her. On this day, she had run to the gardens and hidden under a flowering bush and cried. She stayed hidden until well after dinner, too ashamed of her weakness to show her reddened eyes.

She is under this foliage, biting the inside of her cheek to stop her sobs when she feels the L'Teal—an ancient meditative rhythm. 1,2,3—1,2,3.

This is NEW. It is not part of this memory. She did not practice this as a child. She recognizes the pattern as the lifeline it is. .

Think T'Pol. Concentrate. Follow the rhythm.

Almost indiscernibly at first, she begins to not only sense the rhythm but to feel it as well. The touch is firm and sure. It is familiar. It gives her something solid to hold on to as she pulls herself up from this psychic abbess.

* * *

After the first time or two, he is sure that she's in there. It's like something inside of him just knows it. Beyond his touch, he strives to focus as she's taught him. But this time, he is not focusing on a bloomin' candle but T'Pol herself.

* * *

Hypospray in hand, Phlox enters the little room, halting as he realizes that whatever is passing between the pair should not be interrupted. There is something quite intimate in the simple touch being exchanged in from of him. Tucker is kneeling beside the low bed, his hands on T'Pol's face, his entire being focused on her.

* * *

1,2,3—1,2,3— she feels herself coming to the surface, disoriented but conscious. She would like nothing more than to sleep but she feels him pulling at her. He is desperate for her to open her eyes. For him she will do this if only for a moment.


	6. A Big Fool

It is good to be back in her quarters. The past days in sickbay have been frustrating and not as restful as the Doctor seems to have imagined.

Her thoughts turn to Commander Tucker. Since the night she awoke, he has only come into sickbay once and then with Archer. It is only logical that he might be embarrassed by their recent exchange, however benign. Her convalesce has allowed her time to reflect on what occurred between them. Taking into account her knowledge of the human species and Commander Tucker specifically, she realizes that the psychic intimacy that they have begun to share may be more off putting than an actual physical encounter.

A Vulcan has never practiced Neuropressure with a human before, and for that matter, an unattached female would not practice the technique on a male of any sort—much less a human. Surely, these exchanges are impacting their relationship. She anticipates the opportunity to finally talk with him privately about these issues and seek some level of resolution.

If she is honest with herself, she will admit that she is quite eager to resume their sessions. Given her past weeks in the expanse, she may be in more need of a partner to practice the ancient discipline with than he.

The comm blares and she jumps. "Yes."

"T'Pol, it's me—Trip. Do ya' mind if I come in for a little bit? That is if you're not too tired."

The entrance to T'Pol's quarters opens before he finishes speaking. It is good to see her looking better. The gold color of the silken material of her nightdress highlights her skin. He cannot help but appreciate her as a woman. And whether he likes it or not, a large part of his male ego delights in the fact that she allows him to see her in this state of dress—or undress.

Standing straight, looking him in the eye, she speaks. "Commander Tucker—"

He interrupts, "For God sakes T'Pol, by now, you can call me Trip or at least Charles."

She nods and continues, "Charles, I am glad that you are here. We have much to discuss." She gestures to the large pillows on her floor, "Please take a seat."

He does so, with a wary look in his eye. She follows suit sitting in front of him, pulling a pillow across her lap in an almost protective gesture. Her clasped hands on top of the pillow show more anxiety than he is used to seeing her display.

With a deep breath she begins "Charles, I must thank you for your intervention in sickbay. I cannot quantify the role the L'Teal played in my recuperation." Bowing her head slightly to him, she speaks softly, "For this I thank you."

Sensing that she has not finished he remains quiet. "The fact that you were able to reach my subconscious with the use of the L'Teal would seem to point to a—" She looks at him almost shyly—if possible, "a deepening of our—our connection."

She expects that he will interrupt, giving her a much-needed break but this time, he stays quiet, looking at her intently with not a comment on the horizon.

She resists the urge to say something to provoke him in order to avoid proceeding. No, it is necessary to proceed; even Tucker seems to agree.

With another slight nod, she continues. "As I was saying, there seems to be a significant escalation in our psychic connection as illustrated by your being able to reach me."

To this statement, she only gets a slight widening of his eyes. She had anticipated some comment, some denial. But no, there is none. She feels the need to press, not accustomed to this silent Tucker.

"So, you agree Commander?"

Finally a response. "Now wait a minute. I agree there was somethin' as to 'a psychic connection'—I'm not too up on things I can't touch."

"But you felt something?"

Gathering his nerve not to back down, he answers, avoiding her gaze. "Well, yeah, I did. I could tell you were coming closer to wakin' up, that's all."

"Commander, " She starts off sounding as if she is about to make an order. "Charles, I believe that the Neuropressure sessions have come to somehow reinforce a natural affinity between the two of us. The discipline is typically practiced between a patient and a clinician of the same sex if not between spouses."

Straining to understanding what she is going around the block to get at, he cocks his head to the side and repeats what he thinks she just said. "So, you are saying that this touchy-feely stuff that we've been up to amounts to Vulcan foreplay?"

Now T'Pol's eyes widen as she looks down at her clasped hands. Deciding against embarrassment, she looks him in the eye, "A rather crude analogy but yes, Commander, that is what I am saying. Between a man and a woman, the practice of this discipline is considered to be quite intimate."

"Then why in the hell did you agree to do this in the first place?"

"When Doctor Phlox approached me with the idea, he was unaware of the social morays surrounding the practice. You were in pain and I— I desired to be of assistance. I saw no need to bring these facts to the doctor's attention since I too thought the practice might bring you some measure of comfort."

Some of the old Trip emerged before he knew it. "Awww, T'Pol I didn't know you cared!" he exclaims with a gleam in his eye.

Falling into familiar territory, T'Pol reverts to her Vulcan Officer guise, "On the contrary, it is only logical that the Chief Engineer should be at optimal performance while in the expanse."

This final exchange has led to the pair being nose to nose. And now, speechless.

'OK, Trip—Ol' Buddy—now's your chance; ya' may as well be a big fool if you're going to be a fool.'


	7. My Mind To Your Mind

Trip takes a feminine hand in each of his own as he holds her steady gaze. When he feels her fingers lace willingly with his own, his confidence grows. Her gaze is clear. She expresses no repulsion at his obvious intent.

BEEP—BEEP—"Archer to T'Pol."

She raises a single slanted brow to Tucker as she answers, not removing her hands from his own. "T'Pol here."

"T'Pol. If you're up to it, can you check in with Trip before you turn in? He's got some new ideas about a dampening agent for the alloy. It might just work. I want to get on it as soon as we can."

Uncharacteristically, T'Pol interrupts Archer's explanation, "Consider it done, Captain."

The reaction stops Archer for a moment then he chalks it up to her recent illness. "Well, get some rest. Don't let Trip keep you up too long."

Trip swallows a laugh, suddenly feeling like a teenager caught in his girlfriend's room. "Do not worry Captain, T'Pol out."

As another set of beeps herald the end of the communication, the pair again make eye contact with a hair's breath between them.

She awaits his lead. He tilts his head to one side and whispers a rhetorical "May I?" as he touches his lips to hers.

Upon contact he feels her firm, supple lips tremble. He is confronted with the question of what to do now—retreat or go forward? She gives his hands a firm squeeze with her own and he has his answer.

Closing his eyes, he allows himself to sink into her proffered lips, carefully sucking at her full lower lip. T'Pol responds with a gasp, pulling her hands from his and clasping him around the neck. Her movement brings them that much closer together.

Her mouth is hot and succulent. He wonders how he ever managed without it. And he sheds the last of his hesitation.

As she pulls him closer, she catches a primal sound from his throat as he pushes his tongue further into her mouth. He brings his own hands up to lightly trace at the outlines of her ears. She briefly wonders at his behavior. It is reminiscent of Vulcan male sexual behavior. He seems to know exactly how to touch her and like a Vulcan male, his want seems to melt away any civilized exterior until only the instinct to mate is present.

Then she too is swept away only desiring to take what he can clearly give her.

The pillow from her lap is swept to the side as he lifts her upon his lap, her legs twining around his waist. He finally breaks from the kiss, firm fingers moving from her delicate ears to her lovely temples.

His movements pull her up from her own sensual haze and her hazel eyes meet his blue. When their eyes meet, he brings his forehead to hers, his breath synchronized with her own.

He speaks, his voice as hoarse whisper, if it had been anyone else—but it is Charles Tucker—"My mind to your mind, your mind to my mind."

And with that the human male initiates a mind meld with his Vulcan woman.

"My mind to your mind, your mind to my mind."

He gives no thought to his words or their origin, this is instinct.

It is like they are falling through each other, if you can do such a thing. The knowing is so beautiful that it is almost painful. To think that he had thought her cold when she is the most sensitive being he has ever encountered. He finds each feeling, each emotion cataloged and safely guarded. It reminds him of the momentos his grandmother kept wrapped in tissue paper surrounded by mothballs.

She is sliding through his mind as he is hers. The sand is warm under her toes and she is laughing. Then she is crying and her mother is rocking her, singing to her, telling her that she is loved so much, so very much. She finds the space where Lizzie has been ripped away and the pain is so bleak that she recoils before going forward again only to find his immense love for her. A love so real and true that it can do nothing other than change her forever.

Suddenly this immersion is cut short as the ship lurches forward in great fits. Sirens blare and hands are called to their stations.

They pull out of each other abruptly, neither prepared, both stunned. After a long silent second—eyes meeting, they are up. He is headed toward the door and she to grab her duty clothes.

There are no words to describe what has just taken place. There are many questions but all of this is secondary to them both now.

She understands that she is his woman and that likewise he belongs to her.


	8. Hypothesis

He hasn't had the luxury of reflecting on whatever happened between he and T'Pol since the ship encountered this latest anomaly—not much time to dwell on things when you're trying to save your ass. Pressing the comm button, he prepares to give the Captain an update on how things were going in engineering. He can't help but think about the fact that he'll be talking to her too.

* * *

As they add yet one more mathematical variable to their latest set of equations, T'Pol reaches up to tentatively massage her temples. The sound of Commander Tucker's voice coming in over the comm system prickles at her skin.

She follows the conversation between Archer and Tucker with interest, although other more personal concerns intrude on her concentration. She has much to consider. What Commander Tucker did; it was illogical. How could a human male initiate a Vulcan mind meld? The great majority of the Vulcan population could not and would not even manage such a thing, and certainly not with such ease.

There had to be an answer, she must simply examine all of the possible explanations—no matter how illogical—disproving each until only one remained.

There is Commander Tucker himself. He is a human of great intelligence. He is perceptive, but no more so than several others on the crew. He has proved to be an apt student in the ancient art of Vulcan Neuropressure. Could the practice have caused some sort of latent knowledge to rise to the surface? It is highly unlikely, that he has any such latent knowledge— but she? She might be another case.

An obvious fact is that he is, after all, a male. She thinks back to the social morays and customs surrounding the discipline of Vulcan Neuropressure. Throughout recorded Vulcan history, females have only engaged in the practice with either their spouses or a female practitioner. Could this custom have a scientific basis? Could she somehow be responsible for the Commander's uncharacteristic behavior? And if so, how?

He had utilized a tremendous amount of focus and empathy in performing the L'Teal. If she had not experienced this herself, she would never have considered the possibility of such an effort.

"So what do you think, T'Pol? Should we reconfigure the relays now or wait?" Archer asks.

She responds—acknowledging a bit of embarrassment that she is not been as focused as is her usual standard. "I concur with Commander Tucker's recommendation, a reconfiguration of the secondary relays may indeed afford the ship's support systems a greater degree of stability as we encounter future magnetic anomalies."

The decision made, she politely dismisses herself, having decided to seek further counsel regarding her situation.

* * *

"So let me see if I understand you correctly, Sub-Commander." Phlox states with a barely concealed twinkle of interest in his voice. "The Vulcan Neuropressure seems to have triggered some sort of psychic link between you and Commander Tucker. I assumed as much when he was able to rouse you from your coma."

T'Pol's slightly uneasy reaction is not lost on the Doctor. He knows enough about Vulcan culture to realize that speaking of such a personal matter must be disquieting if not unseemly for T'Pol. He tries to put her at ease by tinkering with one of his flats of herbal plants while he awaits her answer. He learned long ago that sometimes patience is the greatest healer of all.

"When you approached me with a possibility of relieving Commander Tucker's insomnia with the practice of Neuropressure, I too thought that it was an—" she hesitates attempting to find a neutral word, "an acceptable intervention."

She continues now that she has begun, still standing straight, only the hasty cadence of her words indicate her unease. "While I agreed that it was a—a favorable course of action, I did not judge it necessary to review many of the Vulcan customs surrounding the discipline with you."

Looking up from his plants, Phlox responses with a smile of genuine interest. "Is that so? I am always quite interested in the customs and social practices of other cultures. Please, please—continue." Phlox takes a seat across from her and sets his full attention upon her.

Choosing to stand, she continues again, "You are aware that there are many taboos in the Vulcan culture surrounding both mind melds and mating practices. In both cases, these ancient taboos may actually serve to protect the population from devastating neurological conditions. Unfortunately, there is not as much scientific information about these practices nor the physical consequences of breaking them."

With great frustration, she reflects that it is highly illogical for a culture built upon the discipline of logic, to summarily avoid such an important aspect of both its heritage and its health. T'Pol gathers her strength before looking up to meet the Doctor's eyes. "I must caution you that what I am telling you is solely based upon hypothetical reasoning."

"I understand, please continue." Phlox prompts as he leans forward.

"There are customs surrounding the Discipline of Vulcan Neuropressure as well. The most significant being that unattached females traditionally practice the discipline with a practitioner of the same sex. Females do practice this discipline with their spouses. I have drawn the conclusion that this custom has a physiologic basis."

The expression on the Doctor's face encourages her to continue.

"I believe that by engaging in this reciprocal discipline—given that I am an unattached Vulcan female—I have begun to experience—the symptoms of sexual maturity."

"Ah yes, a fascinating biological process. It is my understanding that this cycle occurs once the intended Vulcan male also begins his endocrine cycle." The Doctor's comment leads her to see that he is not far from her own conclusion.

"It is my—I believe—that somehow—through the mutual practice of the Neuropressure, I may have somehow triggered a similar hormonal response in Commander Tucker."

By the end of her revelation, Phlox notices a rather attractive bronze blush coloring her serene features.

The ramifications of her conclusion—if she is correct—are quite thrilling to the doctor. While he has observed many instances of cross species mating—a Vulcan and a Human—well, who would have guessed?

Dampening his excitement, he responses. "Is he? Is he aware of this? Have you spoken with him."

The bronze coloring grows, as she answers with downcast eyes. She speaks as the doors to Sickbay open but caught up in her confession, she takes no notice.

"Not precisely, Doctor, he is aware that something is happening. But I wished to consult with you regarding my hypothesis before I spoke with Commander Tucker."

"Commander Tucker?" A familiar voice questions. "What you wantin' me for?"


	9. Scientific Methods

Doctor Phlox and T'Pol turn at the sound of Trip's voice.

T'Pol greets him with a cool nod. "I wished to consult with the Doctor prior to speaking but since you are here, it is only logical that I relay my concerns to you at this time. Your presence in sickbay may expedite whatever scientific methods may be at our disposal to test my hypothesis."

Incredulously, Trip responds to T'Pol speech. "Wooa now, come again? What are you talkin' about— this time in plain English if you please."

T'Pol shifts from one foot to the other, the strain actually showing on her face. Her patience is wearing thin. "Given our increasing telepathic link, I have hypothesized that you may be experiencing some physical effects from—from practicing Vulcan Neuropressure with me. I wish to explore this possibility."

Working on a lack of sleep, Trip considers T'Pol's words. While he would like nothing more than to dismiss her suspicions, he knows that she is right. Hell, how did he know that meld-thing? It just came out of no where. Much less pulling her out with the L'Teal. He guesses that she's not gonna let this rest. If she's anything, she's thorough.

Before he can voice his consent, T'Pol speaks again, "Please,—Charles. Do this—I request this of you."

Her plea stops him dead in his tracks—'Please,—Charles.' What the heck is goin' on? If it means that much to her—

"Alright Doc, do your worst." Trip declares, holding out his arms in mock defeat.

Permission granted, Phlox quickly starts to work. "If I may suggest, Sub Commander, why don't you take advantage of this opportunity to take in some nourishment or better yet some sleep. We'll be done in an hour or so."

With a reluctant glance toward the Commander, T'Pol exits.

* * *

"I say, Mr. Tucker, do you know much about Vulcan physiology?" Phlox asks as he moves from one task to the next.

"I know about the green blood if that's what ya' mean."

"Well, yes. I was actually referring to the monogamous marriage practices of the species. Do you know that there is a significant physiological basis to the monogamy, almost an imprinting if you will."

Getting no more response from the Commander than a yawn, the Doctor continues.

"It is actually a fascinating biological process. The imprinting begins when a Vulcan male enters particularly high endocrine cycle. I would go so far as to theorize that this increased hormonal activity also stimulates certain parts of the neural cortex."

Phlox tries to dampen his own excitement. The ramifications of this—if he is correct—are quite thrilling. While he has observed many instances of cross species mating—a Vulcan and a Human—well, who would have guessed?

The doctor forges ahead. "You may be curious to know that the practice of the Neuorpressure also stimulates areas of the neural cortex."

Phlox's voice rouses Trip from his thoughts. He is both distracted and restless. "What'd ya say, Doc? I'm 'fraid my mind was somewhere else."

Phlox responses with a familiar cryptic half-smile and speaks again, "I was saying that the practice of the Neuorpressure releases certain endorphins into one's system."

"Yeah, I mean— some of the exercises—well, they relax you but they have a kick to em'. I do feel better—a little too much energy maybe—but better."

"I would imagine so if these results are any indication."

"Huh, Doc?"

"No cause for alarm Commander Tucker, but with your permission, I would like to call the Sub Commander to take part in our discussion regarding your test results. It would seem that the Neuropressure has affected your health."

"My health? I feel fine. Honestly, actually I feel better than I have in a while—I mean, I'm not sick, I am? "

"On the contrary, Commander Tucker, your health is truly beyond compare."

* * *

Without comment, T'Pol takes the seat next to Trip at the Doctor's conference table. Addressing Trip, the doctor begins as soon as she is seated. "When T'Pol came to me earlier today, she expressed some concern over the possibility that through the reciprocal practice of Vulcan Neuropressure—that you might have experienced some unanticipated physical effects."

"I ran a standard battery of tests—vitals, endocrine levels and based on the results I found, I followed up with several tests regarding the neurological functioning of the brain."

Phlox muses that this is the moment of truth for every doctor, delivering the news to the patient. In this case, patients—

"For God's sake, Doc—just go ahead, will ya!" Trip admonishes him.

T'Pol follows with an uncharacteristically impatient response for a Vulcan, "I concur, Doctor."

"Very well, I will give you a broad summary of my findings now. Naturally, you will want to—-"

"Now, Doc!"

Phlox takes a breath before continuing, "It seems for the large part that the Sub Commander's suspicions are well founded. Although the thoroughness of this effect seems to be more profound than one might initially assume."

Flipping on a switch, the Doctor, lights the board behind him. "Commander Tucker, this is a brain scan taken during your annual physical almost nine months ago. It was perfectly normal, just as I would expect."

As Phlox clinks again, another brightly colored scan is shown. "Now this is the scan taken today. Let me place the two side by side. As you can see there is a significant increase in activity throughout the brain. The Pituitary and Hypothalamus are both functioning at approximately 37% beyond expected levels and yet they are showing no strain at all. The electrical impulses in the areas of the brain associated with thought and memory have approximately doubled."

"Doc, can ya' cut to the chase? Seems like I'm missin' somethin' in the translation."

"In summary, it would seem that the Neuropressure has rendered alterations throughout your bodily systems. After cross referencing with the Vulcan database, I would venture that your connection with T'Pol substantially altered your neural cortex and thereby your metabolic functioning. While the literature is not completely clear, I would guess that this 'psychic rewiring' so to speak, is a genetic ability of the Vulcan female brain in order to ensure the continuation of the line."

"So, my brain is runnin' a little different, how big a deal is that?"

Tiring of vague discussion T'Pol joins the conversation, voicing her understanding of the Doctor's findings. "It means that physiologically you are more Vulcan than human. Your chemistry now matches my own thus ensuring me a suitable male counterpart. That is what this means."


	10. Frivolity

Phlox's lecture continues for the next hour and a half. Long enough for what he's saying (and saying again) to sink in. All the medical explanations in the universe can't quantify what he feels when he's with T'Pol. His grandmother would call it love—no more—no less. Deciding that his theory is good enough for him, he deliberately tunes out much of Phlox's review. To chalk it up to so many neurons and chemicals, well, it just doesn't sit right with him.

He chances a glance at T'Pol as he slumps in his chair, marveling that she is still sitting ramrod straight after forever. As he focuses on her, he realizes that with only a slight effort, he can clearly sense her feelings. They radiate off of her in waves and stand in sharp contrast to her composed posture. She is tense. She is worried. Worried for him. 'Well, I'll be damned'—he thinks.

She fears his anger, his possible displeasure at this thing she has brought down upon him. She fears he will turn away from her.

How could he? Why would he? When she is the only light is his darkness, the only saving grace in this deadly expanse.

He debates the possibility of reaching out to her in some way, but somehow he knows that his touch in this place will only distress her further. It comes to him that if he can feel her emotions perhaps she can feel his too. It would fit with the Doc's assumptions.

He tries to sort it out in his head, just how to do this and can't. 'OK Trip, relax, you can do this.' What did the Doc say about instinctual knowledge—somethin' about Vulcan imprinting bein' relayed to him? Whatever—, just relax and try again.

Focusing just on the who, not the how—he thinks of his acceptance of her, of the meaning she has gifted him with—he thinks of these feelings over and over as he looks at her for a reaction.

Finally, her brown eyes slide to his. As they make contact he feels a wave of sunshine hit him. She knows. She gets it. That's his girl, he thinks, as he sees her imperceptibly relax against the back of her chair.

Dr. Phlox has the distinct impression that his small audience has been otherwise engaged for quite awhile although neither has gazed away for more than a second or two. As he prepares to close, he raises his voice a bit.

"This is a significant occurrence, Commander Tucker. Given your importance to the crew, I will need to prepare a report for the Captain immediately. I would suggest that you pay the Captain a visit prior its submission.

* * *

Neither speaks until the doors of the Turbo Lift slide closed. Standing at the controls, T'Pol speaks without turning. "To the Captain's Quarters?"

Before she can press the panel, Trip comes to stand behind her. He loops his right arm around her waist, hunching a bit to place his chin near her left ear as he draws her tense body up against his own.

He whispers in her ear. "Wait, wait just a minute."

His hot breath caresses the tip of her ear and she sighs in response. She leans back allowing him to support her. Her head falls back against his chest as her eyes close.

"Now that's more like it, Honey." He replies running his free hand up and down her slender arm.

"Honey? Honey is a food produced by insects. There are several varieties on Vulcan." Her words cheer him. Encountering her sense of humor at a time like this cheers him. If she's up to play then he is too.

He turns her, embracing her for a moment before responding.

"Honey? Well, you're right about it bein' a food. But it is also a term of endearment. Honey is sweet, you are sweet—hence I call you 'Honey'."

Her hands firmly against his chest, she rears back. With an arched brow she answers. "I find the term 'sweet' to have no similarities to me in any way. It is illogical for you to associate me with a substance made by pollen gathering insects to nourish their young."

"So, Honey, what would you prefer I call you? I don't seem to have any Vulcan endearments running through my brain."

"Endearments as you call them are illogical, they serve no purpose other than frivolity."

She feels more than hears a deep chuckle rumble through his chest. "And you said I was more Vulcan than Human, I am all for frivolity, Honey."


	11. Sure Thing

A young ensign turns to Malcolm as he walks toward the Turbo Lift. "Do you think it's broken?"

Reassuringly, he answers, "I doubt it, these are about the only things around here that don't break down! Here, let me try." He presses the panel and waits, only to be confronted by the still closed doors.

"That's odd, it looks like someone has stopped the lift between decks."

He thinks that it's good to be the Chief of Security as he quickly punches in the override code. "This should do the trick." He remarks as he stands expectantly in front of the doors.

* * *

The sensation of the Turbo Lift moving rouses the embracing pair. T'Pol jumps back until her back hits the wall by the control panel.

Before Trip can respond, the doors are opening. 'Oh no, not Malcolm—great, just great! Just act cool.' He says to himself.

"Malcolm" Trip says with a nod, "Everything goin' alright?"

"Ahhh, yes. Everything is fine, I've just finished briefing the Captain— "

Malcolm's attention strays as he is momentarily distracted by T'Pol's stately figure stepping out of the Turbo Lift behind Trip. His thoughts light on the fact that it's not the first time that he's come across these two under somewhat strange circumstances. It gives him pause.

It really does.

* * *

This latest twist is one that Jonathan Archer didn't see coming—not by a long shot. He takes a deep breath and attempts to assimilate the information just presented to him.

"So let me get this straight. This Vulcan Neuropressure, it allowed for some kind of psychic link between the two of you and it's had some side effects."

Sensing the Captain's unease, T'Pol gathers herself to fulfill her usual role of attempting to provide a succinct explanation of the phenomena.

"The evidence indicates that the Vulcan female brain, under certain circumstances, can trigger certain metabolic changes in a prospective male in order to—to ensure a—successful—mating relationship. This has occurred between myself and Commander Tucker."

While T'Pol has managed to carry off her monologue as dispassionately as if she were describing any other scientific anomaly, Trip feels the waves of uncertainty radiating from her. He is moved to aid her in reassuring the Captain.

"Cap'n, I feel fine, no sense in makin' a big deal about this. The way I see it, T'Pol here was just helpin', she had no idea this was going to happen."

"Has Dr. Phlox come up with a way to reverse these effects?"

Trip responds quickly and without thought, "If it's all the same to you, Cap'n, I'd just as soon leave it as is."

A look of surprise lights Archer's features while T'Pol simply stares forward. Archer stops himself before he makes a few comments he'll regret.

"Very well then, if Dr. Phlox is confident that you're cleared for duty, then—."

The Captain hesitates for a moment. This is a touchy subject and damn, he always thought that she—. Well, never mind that now,—

"Well, are congratulations in order at a time like this?"

T'Pol spares Trip, answering the question. "It is customary for the elder male in a Vulcan family to give his consent to a union if—" She looks down as a bronze blush spreads over her cheeks. "If the male is—" She cuts a look toward Trip, "acceptable."

If Archer didn't know better, he'd think she was teasing the Commander. Bruised ego and all, he takes the bait. "And is he—acceptable—that is?"

She raises her regal head but looks at Trip as she answers the Captain's question. "He is—acceptable."

"Then I guess I get to give the bride away, huh?"

Trip senses additional unease from T'Pol at this line of conversation. "Cap'n, if it's alright with you, can we keep this quiet for a while. I mean, this is awful new to us too."

Archer nods, suddenly feeling protective of the couple, "Sure thing, Trip."


	12. Biological Imperatives

_Phlox—Medical Log_

Through the creation a sustained neuro-psychic pathway, the female Vulcan brain, seems to be equipped to override a prospective mate's indigenous neuro-chemical patterns in order to ensure the continuation of the line.

Based on similar bonding methods in several other humanoid species, one would theorize that that this unknown capability is most likely a hold over from the ancient history of the species. Vulcans were historically an aggressive, conquering race. There may have been times, when entire tribes of warriors were wiped out and only females were left to continue. Those with psychic skills strong enough to essentially convert the chemistry of a prospective mate to that of their own were not only successful in procreating but also ensured the survival of the Vulcan race.

A thorough cross-reference of the Vulcan medical database yields no supporting—or refuting evidence as to this theory. Given what is known about the many taboos and social rules surrounding mating practices within the Vulcan culture, one might assume that many of these ancient taboos might have a physiological basis.

Sub Commander T'Pol allows that she was aware that there were certain cultural taboos regarding unattached females practicing the discipline of Neuropressure. She was unaware that the custom might have a physiological basis. Again, due to the closed aspects of Vulcan society, scientific information about these morays or the physical consequences of breaking them are essentially non-existent.

A standard battery of tests shows alterations throughout Commander Tucker's bodily systems. I would hypothesize that the repeated psychic contact between the two, first altered the neural cortex and these neural changes then began to alter the metabolic functioning of the body.

There are significant changes in vast majority of Commander Tucker's systems as demonstrated when compared to his most recent physical. (See Medical Chart CT8905)

In most cases, his vitals are roughly in line with that of an adult Vulcan male of similar age. Compared to an expected human profile, his body is performing at 23.8% over the expected peak. A particularly fascinating change is seen in the brain. There is a significant increase in activity throughout the brain with both the Pituitary and Hypothalamus functioning at 37.25% beyond expected levels.

The electrical impulses in the areas of the brain associated with thought and memory have approximately doubled. As Sub Commander T'Pol so aptly put it, Commander Tucker is physiologically closer to a Vulcan than a Human at this point.

The ramifications of these physical changes—significant as they are—may only provide the backdrop for—a situation of cross species mating. Given a brief review of the little information that is available regarding

Much of the expected male/female interaction is an instinct-driven, biological process. Sub Commander T'Pol postulates that she is entering into such a cycle in response to her contact with Commander Tucker. In reviewing his endocrine levels, it would be safe to assume that he too is entering into a similar hormonal state. I postulate that circumstances will continue to escalate until the endocrine cycle completes itself.

Both crew members will be impacted to the point that their biological imperatives will require priority over their regular duties. While it is understood that both are sorely needed at all times, ignoring these circumstances will only further their agitation and greatly increase the chance of poor work performance. This information will be passed on to the Captain at 0800 hours

_end log_


	13. Dice With His Atoms

The walk back from the Captain's quarters is awkward to say the least. Neither speaks and both keep a companionable distance. There is an unspoken understanding, that one word—one touch—and well—

They reach T'Pol's quarters before they make eye contact.

"Commander—Charles—Trip" she stumbles over his many names attempting to find the one that suits her tongue, all are equally awkward. Still, she understands that Trip would be his choice. "Trip, now that we have spoken to the Captain, I recommend that we speak privately. Ordinarily—given the level of fatigue—I—"

Placing a hand on the small of her back, he interrupts, " 'nough said Darlin', after you."

* * *

With the door safely closed, both release breaths neither realized they were holding. She is exhausted and overwhelmed. He is too. She knows that he knows it, no reason to beat a dead horse. Hell, a couple times he could have sworn she would lose it.

The last two days and some odd hours have been such that he hasn't been able to spend much time really thinkin' about what is goin' on. Despite all the medical mumbo jumbo, he has no clue where in the devil he had come up with that Vulcan lingo. And past the words, it was the action itself—the meld—that's the real humdinger.

He was—he had been—she had been—God, there were no words to adequately describe it. It was like he had been running his fingers through her soul, through everything she was. Hell, he had just kissed her. So why did it feel like—he didn't know—like it was way more than a kiss? If he had to guess, he would put money on that very moment—that's the one that played dice with his atoms—that one right there.

Too tired to even attempt to continue to maintain her usual stoic stance, she goes to sit on the edge of her bed, eyes open but unseeing. There is much to consider. The medical confirmation of her suspicions is staggering. There are too many questions, too many feelings to sort through them in an orderly fashion. Beyond the factual accounting of the phenomenon, she is keenly aware of an increased humming within her physical being.

Practically, she admits to herself that the longer she allows the increasing physical impulses to grow unchecked, the more difficult it will be to reason, to simply think. She must think, she must sort this out. But the hum in her blood is distracting. After leaving the Captain's Cabin, it took all of her carefully honed defenses to not— to not act on her impulses. Even now, she fears that one brush with him will consume her in a most unbecoming way.

'OK, what to do or not to do?' He thinks as he watches her sit there, shoulders bent as if the weight of several worlds is pressing down on her delicate shoulders. If his brain is functioning so God damned better, then why for God's sake is he standin' here like a mute fool? His first impulse is to go to her, to touch her but if she wanted that, she woulda' said so. Still, she was not half as bold as he had once thought her. He knows this now.

He wishes he could know what she was thinkin' and suddenly remembers he pretty much can...Well, when in Rome...

It's a jumble that's for sure—doubt, shame, worry, frustration, indecision, agitation. That's enough for sure, he is at her side in a moment, kneeling at her feet like a suitor from long ago. He meets her gaze and is shocked to encounter unshed tears waiting to fall.

With this simple connection, something seems to slide from her. She is suddenly on the floor with him, boneless in his arms. Lying in the protective circle of her arms, she opens her eyes and a sigh escapes her lips.

Touching her, holding her—everything in him compels him to seek her out as before. The last time, the last time, it felt like something had been left undone—what he didn't know but in this he is a salmon headin' in to spawn. He winces at his own analogy.

He raises his hand to her temple as before. This time her own hand slides up his face, this time she is ready. He gazes into her eyes. Even before he speaks the ritual words, he is flying. He is falling back into her at a dizzying speed. Like fingers interweaving as hands clasp so go their souls.

Again through memories—oh to stop at each—and then sensations—tactile memories—tastes—sounds—colors. Then, he is suddenly hyper aware of his own body. He is hot, heavy with arousal, his blood cries to take her. His eyes open abruptly to find hers open as well.

His mouth begins a slow descent to hers when he sees that the tears she has been holding have spilled. The sight, it stops him cold. Her confusion, her need, her exhaustion—all radiate to him. His need to protect her overrides his physical need.

He stands, holding her and lays down on the bed with her. Hastily, he kicks off his shoes and hers. Realizing the lights are on, he voices a quick, "Lights off" to the computer before turning his attention back to the woman in his arms.

"Honey—just sleep. You're safe. Everything will work out, I promise. Just sleep."

She follows his directive without comment. Well, that's a first, he thinks. The only response she allows him is the feel of her backside nestling into him quite deliberately and he'll take that any day.


	14. A Rare But Predictable Phenomenon

Immediately upon waking, she is immediately aware of him pressing against her. His proximity, the meld, the much needed rest—have restored a great deal of her composure. Even in sleep his presence is staggering. She yields to old habits, and eases a space or two away from him.

Her slight retreat wakes him immediately. He misinterprets her intention and makes a move to release her, his hands suddenly feeling awkward on her skin.

He speaks, suddenly trying to avoid her gaze at all costs. "Gosh, T'Pol, I'm sorry. I didn't mean t'—I shouldn't have taken advantage—with you so tired and all. I'll just—-"

His words come to a sudden halt when he feels her strong grasp on his forearm.

"Charles, please, wait."

Her words, they sound strangely seductive coming out of her mouth. He turns toward her. She is so close that she must raise her face to meet his eyes. She has not released him from her grasp as he turns, the combination of her touch and the close proximity of her body disorient him, dampening thought and laying him bare to impulse.

Her pupils dilate as she maintains their contact as if she is posed and waiting for him. She draws him to her like a siren summoning him into depths from which he will never return. The analogy is his last thought as he submits willingly to her current.

Imperceptibly, they move even closer together. He raises his hands, brushing her ears with the pads of his fingers before sliding down to grasp the sides of her face just above her slanting brows.

At his touch, her eyes close and her body releases a huge wave of tension. She leans into him, her hands grasping his shirt. Her mind sings a constant Yes.

Not moving the hands that frame her face, he brings his head down, nuzzling her soft cheek with his own. Her soft breath exhales near his ear and the simple sensation is so sublime that he can hardly quantify it. But now is not for thought, he feels her desire and he is her slave in this. He will always be.

Trip brushes his lips against her forehead and once more relishes not only her consent but her welcome as well.

Yes.

Come.

Now.

Yes.

It is as if there is a duality to him, a complexity that is both alien and ancient. It wraps around him like a cloak, like a second skin and all the while, her voice sings in his head, urging him on. Whatever this is, this magic, she is at its center. As she breathes heavily in his arms, he can do nothing but accept.

The impulses are clearer now, stronger, infusing his being with purpose and want. He wills her eyes to open to him and they do. Here is the sea in which he is drowning. He dives. He dives in with his soul, with his physical self.

"My mind to your mind, your mind to my mind" he whispers roughly, caressing her temples as he speaks.

Somewhere his mind understands that this communion is a gift that she has given him, but he gives it no thought as he acts. Her ancestors are his, her needs are his, her instinct is his.

She is his.

She gives herself over to him, trusting completely as she anticipates the coming storm. And as before it comes. She is moving through him at the speed of light, running through his veins, his memories, his desires. Random sounds, smells, tastes run through her—peaches—she recognizes that taste of peaches. Her mouth curves upward as she holds fast to his solid body.

Colors, he sees colors, purple and red skies. He feels her blood pumping through her veins, the perfume of her arousal. His senses, his mind is filled to the brim with her. Only her.

It comes to him that she is thinking of peaches. Peaches make her happy. This thought brings him joy. His laugh rings in the silence of her chamber as he feels some sort of sob run through her.

Pulling back, he forces his eyes to look at her. He realizes that she is trying to laugh. "Aww honey, let it out. It's OK to be happy, it's wonderful. Be happy. Be happy for me!" he urges as he gently breaks the meld.

He realizes that her face is wet. That she has tears on her face. He wipes her tears and sets to tasting each one. Each is all the more precious for its rarity.

The salty taste of her tears lights a fire within him. It is beyond arousal, it is a truly primal fire threading through his veins. He feels hot and driven. As when he initiated the meld with her, he feels the words and knowledge to propel them forward.

She is mesmerized by his presence, by the sheer masculinity of him. There could not have been another. He is more than acceptable—he simply is the one, the only one for her.

His eyes are shining now and she can see his muscles clenching as he looks at her. She knows what to expect although it is new to her. She reminds herself that he is responding to the Vulcan heat. It saddens her a bit to think that the look in his eyes is because of his physical need and not his want of her. She reminds herself that she is practical and logical, that none of this matters now. He is hers whatever the cause.

Again, her feelings of uncertainly reach him even through the fire. He comes to her, cradling her face in his hands. "Aww, Honey, no. It's not like that." He begins to pepper kisses over her face as he speaks.

"I've wanted you since the moment I saw you, look inside my head if ya' want. I just never thought—never dreamed."

She finds that her heart responds to this human affection more than it could to any Vulcan passion. More hot and silent tears run down her face. The feeling that he gives to her is true, not manufactured from genetic codes and hormones.

He can do no other than to draw her back into his kiss.

Something inside of her first yields, then rejoices. 'Yes. It is he.'

She twines around him. He feels wonderful. All of her uncertainty is brushed aside- burnt away in a firestorm of want. Logic? Possessing him is the only logic she knows. She slides her hands around his waist drawing as close as possible, burrowing her face into the curve of his neck. Oh to inhale his scent. It fires her blood. She opens her mouth drawing on his flesh. Still it is not enough. Her teeth close on him.

Her ardent assault rouses him and ignites a cascade of physical responses that simply over ride higher thought. There is only touch, only need—but no—need is too weak of a word.

His body surges forward sounding a growl from low in his chest. His hands rise to tear at her clothing as his body flips hers under his own. Somewhere in her mind, it registers that his touch is no longer tentative, there are no more sideways glances shyly asking for permission. His touch is sure, firm, even rough. She revels in his desire, his possession.

Her hips rise in seeming protest, he responses only bearing down harder. In frustration she raises her head, letting out a sigh of her own. She only wishes to— there, he eases up for a fraction of a second. Long enough for her to open her limbs to him, tilting her hips for a better contact.

Their eyes meet, they are of one accord, one mind. Whatever passes between them releases more— more of everything. Hands grab and tear at any garment in their way. His hands cup her face as he devours her with his mouth. She arches into him, her legs curling into backs of his thighs.

He enters her without delay, the cry from her mouth driving him forward. A primal part of him relishes her pain, acknowledging its significance. He has no mercy, not this man he has become. If anything, the knowledge only serves to intensify his movements.

She welcomes his assault. For so long, her blood has been humming—unsatisfied—a continuous disturbance from within. But he, he has answered her blood call with his mind, with his hands, with his very being. And now the hum is so loud that it is all she hears. It is all she is. Her arms grasp behind her for something to stabilize them.

Grasping her hips with a bruising grip, he savors the picture before him through half closed eyes. It comes to her that there is something incongruent about his slumberous eyes and his ferocity. An emotion spikes through her as they seem to explode in sensation—this is her beloved.

He stills as his mind shares her own. She watches him closely, allowing the feel of him—so intimately entwined with her—to sink into her every pore. It is as if he is looking inward—eyes seeing but not and then—suddenly—a smile lights his face as his eyes sparkle.

"Well, I'll be damned" he says with delight as he cups her bottom ensuring that she stays right where he wants her. "So much for 'a random series of biological events coalescing into a rare but predictable phenomenon.'"

She savors his delight over the fact that it was their attraction and emotion that set this special chemistry in motion and not the other way around. She arches a familiar brow as her lush lips curve up ever so slightly, "Commander Tucker, I am impressed, I had not thought that you were following the Doctor's lecture so closely."

He laughs deeply at her comment and relishes the joy radiating her.


	15. An Exemplary Mate

The room is spinning. Her eyes are closed. She is lying completely still. But she is spinning, the room is spinning. This must be what it is like to be drunk. While Trip hasn't related certain memories to her willingly, he has been drunk more than a time or two. The corners of her mouth curve as she relishes the intimacy of being in his mind, in his memories. There is so much she wouldn't know otherwise.

The way, she can feel so certain about him, about them, about the reality of their joining. She wonders at what she knows of human relationships—the physical component—yes, she understands but while you might share someone's body, you don't have access to that person's true self. How lonely she would be without being able to grasp so many fleeting memories and emotions from Trip.

He stirs, turning to lay on his back. He is smiling in his sleep when she opens her eyes. She is no longer shy of him, of gazing at his face. Beloved—the word, the thought, the feeling comes to her genuinely and she does not even attempt to deny it. She wonders at the ease at which her psyche grasps it all but she does not waste her energy with denial. Rather she accepts and mediates on her good fortune.

On all accounts he is an exemplary mate. She can recognize this now. Her weakness is his strength and likewise. Further away from the teachings of her youth, she can acknowledge that there is more than one way to approach—a problem—life—anything. Often the Vulcan way is the far superior course but sometimes humanity wins out. She sees this now.

She admires his curiosity, his intelligence, his humor, his way of not overwhelming others, making others feel at ease. As her eyes trail his limbs, she must also admit that his physical self also draws her. He is the most attractive male she has ever encountered. The sheer size of him pleases her. She contemplates this until she cannot help herself as she raises on an elbow to trace his lips with a single finger-tip.

His eyes open gracing her with a wry smile. "Well, hello, Beautiful."

She tilts her head slightly in response, "You find me beautiful?"

He also raises up on his elbows too, to better look her in the eye. "I thought you'd have guessed by now."

She meets his gaze and braces herself for honesty. "I still find it improbable even though I know it is not. These events are—" her eyes shift downward in a gesture he finds incredibly sexy. "These events have—have pleased me beyond what I could have imagined."

Her eyes meet his again as she leans closer to him, "You have pleased me beyond what I could have conceived. I find it reasonable that I should wish that you have found me acceptable as well."

His warm, naked hand comes up the clasp the back of her neck as he touches her forehead with his own. "Honey, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were fishin' for compliments like every other women since the beginin' of time."

Showing no outward reaction she responds by rearing back slightly. "And if I were—fishing—as you say—for compliments—would you provide me with a number of them?"

At the realization that she is deliberately teasing him, his heart does a somersault. He is going to have to have her again, that's all there is to it. His hand still on the back of her silky neck pulls her back toward him and he pulls her ear close to his lips. "Darlin', I plan on givin' you a infinite number of them."

As soon as his lips touch the sensitive tip of her ear they are again caught up in a blood tide of heat.

* * *

Malcolm is doing the usual security scans. Among these is a simple bio scan that counts and identifies all biological entities on board. With Xindi visitors a distinct possibility, these routine scans have taken on a crucial role in the day to day security of the ship.

Ok, that was odd—must be another anomaly. Still the gremlins are usually more wide spread and it's just this one reading. Punching a couple more keys, he runs the scan again. And then again.

Reaching for the comm, he prepares to find out exactly why he is getting two Vulcan life signs in T'Pol's quarters.


	16. Stranger And Stranger

This just gets stranger and stranger.

Upon punching the comm button for T'Pol's quarters a Medical Services Block comes up. He's only encountered Phlox using this unique privilege a time or two and only when someone's really been through the ringer.

Still, Phlox allowing for a routine override on T'Pol's basic comm link seems a little odd and he's never known the Sub-Commander to brush off her duties. But then again, it is well into the second duty shift and there's been no sign of T'Pol on deck, even when the woman's off, she's on.

Whatever medical clearance she's got, if still doesn't negate the fact that he's got two Vulcan bio signs comin' up in her quarters.

Oh well, when in doubt, go by the book—

"Security to Sick Bay, Phlox, you in?"

"Ahh, yes, I'm here. How can I be of service?" the doctor answers in his usual congenial tone.

"I have a question about a Med Service Block coming up for the comm link to Sub Commander T'Pol's quarters."

"Yes?"

Malcolm rolls his eyes, what is going on, the Doc is usually more forthcoming— "Well, I was running the bio scan and well, I'm coming up with an odd reading from T'Pol's suite. I tried hailing her to check it out but I wasn't sure if I should go around the Med Block."

"If I may ask, exactly what reading are you getting?"

"This is going to sound odd but I'm getting two Vulcan bio signs in her quarters. And as far as I know, there's only one Vulcan on board."

It seems like the pause before Phlox speaks is a long one, "I see. Would you mind terribly scanning the ship for Commander Tucker?"

"Alright, but I need to know about—"

The doctor uncharacteristically cuts him off, "Please, do as I ask."

"Sure thing Doc."

It only takes a keystroke or two—OK, that's weird—no Trip. Here we go again. Two more scans come up empty. As he gets back to the Doc, he is quickly typing in more commands.

"OK, Doc, this is going to sound strange but Trip's not on board. I ran a person by person scan and I'm coming up without Trip and with an unidentified Vulcan male. Doc, I am going to alert the Captain—"

For the second time in so many minutes, Phlox interrupts Malcolm. "No need, I have already briefed the Captain on the situation. Due to some confidentiality concerns, I would prefer to not share anymore with you at present. However, I can assure you that this is not a risk to security."

With that Phlox closes the link.

Malcolm sits back and begins to sort out the puzzle in front of him. OK, we have a sanctioned Med. block on T'Pol's comm system, a very evasive Doctor Phlox, the bio signs of a male Vulcan in T'Pol's quarters—and to top it all off, everyone else is present and accounted for except for Trip. Well if one thing's for certain, he knows a rat when he smells one. And this smells like a big one.

He's sorting out his plan of action when the Captain steps on the bridge.

"Captain, Sir? Do you have a moment?"

"Sure, Malcolm. What's up."

"Well that's just it, I'm not sure. I was running a Bio Scan when I came across a strange reading. At first I figured it was just an anomaly but if it is, it's much more localized than what we've encountered previously."

Archer comes to stand behind his security officer's chair, directing his attention to screen in front of them. Malcolm quickly runs back over his previous scans while recounting his conversation with Phlox.

Jonathan can't help but feel a little stunned even though he can guess what's going on. Trip is the Vulcan Male bio sign in T'Pol's quarters. God, his head is starting to pound. He promised the two that they could keep their escalating relationship quiet but it seems that this isn't going to be as simple as he first thought.

By now, Malcolm has turned and is looking at him expectantly. "Sir, what about Trip?" He was accounted for in the previous scan and it's not like we've been anywhere in the meantime, should I run a class one search?"

Archer raises up and before he can help himself, he is rubbing the small of his back in a characteristic movement that heralds his level of discomfort. Oh the Hell with it he thinks as he goes with the hard ass routine and responses sharply, "Malcolm, just let it go. Trip's fine. T'Pol's fine. The Doc just wanted them to get some rest."

"But, sir—what about the Vulcan Life Sign? It could be a Xindi trick of some sort. Can we at least hail T'Pol, make sure she's alright?"

Again, Archer voice comes across more harshly than he would have liked. "Malcolm, let it go. Let the whole thing go. Not another word, that's an order!"

Upon his last word, Archer turns leaving a mystified Malcolm at his post.

* * *

For the next two hours of his shift, Malcolm continues to mull over both the strange scans and the Captain's closed response. It comes to him that there are some similarities between the Captain's reaction and the Doc's. Whatever is going on, they are both in on it.

He fits what he knows together over and over again. As an officer, he knows that there are times when you will not be privy to information but still, this doesn't feel right. When Hoshi walks by, he has to fight with all he has not to call her over to discuss the mystery.

Finally, he's relieved of his post and before he knows it he finds himself on T'Pol's deck. Maybe he'll just hang out here for a while just to ease his mind.

* * *

"Doc, we're gonna have to address this with the crew, at least the senior officers. If we don't its just going to create one big distraction and that's one thing we DON'T need right now. Malcolm's suspicious right now and I doubt if he'll be the last."

Phlox nods understandingly, "Unfortunately, I concur. I had not considered that many of our security scans would pick up the changes in Commander Tucker's chemistry."

"So what know? Is it OK if we hail them now? It's been close to twenty hours since they left my office. I checked Trip's entry log and he never entered his quarters last night."

Phlox is momentarily entertained by the slight blush on the Captain's cheeks. These humans certainly have issues around mating. "Sir, I would imagine that they can cope with, ahhh, being disturbed. From my understanding of the Vulcan mating cycle, I would think that they are most likely more cognizant and organized now that they have—have had ample time alone."

Jonathan shifts from one foot to the other, attempting and failing to find a comfortable position. Taking a deep breath, he overrides the Med. Block on the comm system for T'Pol's quarters.

* * *

She is on her back as he drives into her over and over. In an attempt to bring him closer, she wraps her legs tightly around his waist and surges up to meet him stroke for stroke. She savors his touch, his need of her. Each time he loses a bit more restraint and becomes more feral. She moves her body seductively in order to further encourage and ignite his aggression. She craves his mark on her, his primitive claim on her body.

They are close now and he is seeking yet more contact. In one swift movement, she finds herself pushed up against the wall, the hard surface giving him the leverage he desires. The muscular cords on his neck appeal to her and she bites him not so lightly. The addition of this last sensation pushes him over the edge and soon they are both falling once again. As they sink to the floor, he is still encompassed within in her. His only thought is how convenient for next time.

The slight sound that precedes a comm message pierces the silence. Given their preoccupation with their current entanglement, neither notices.

"Archer to T'Pol. Archer to T'Pol."

The seconds before she responds seems like an eternity to Jonathan Archer. He suddenly feels awkwardly parental towards his second in command.

When she responds her voice is deeper, huskier than usual. The sound only serves to immense him in a jumble of protectiveness, embarrassment and yes, envy.

"T'Pol here, Captain."

"T'Pol, you'll have to excuse me it wasn't my intention to bother you but it seems as if we're going to need to address your situation with Trip sooner than you would have liked."

The voice that answers shocks Jonathan a bit even though he knows full well that Trip is present. "How so, Cap'n?"

It registers with Jonathan that Trip makes no effort to explain his presence in T'Pol's quarters. It is as if he is supposed to be there well into the night.

"It seems as if your bio signs are throwing up some red flags with security. I'd like to see you both in my ready room in—let say half an hour?"

Answering for both of them, Trip's voice comes back through to Sick Bay, "Will do, Cap'n. Tucker out."

Logged off the comm system, Trip mutters a curse but makes no effort to move. For that matter neither does T'Pol.

With a crooked smile, he jests, "Is it just me or was that the shortest honeymoon on record?"

T'Pol shifts her head to the side and lets out a sigh before touching her forehead to his own. "I find I must agree with you. I am not yet sated."

Trip groans in reply, "Ahh, Honey, you sure know how to hurt a guy."

She pulls back more than willing to stroke his ego, "On the contrary, your prowess is quite outstanding. I simply feel the need to continue—as we are." To emphasize her point, she squeezes him in the most intimate way.

"Well, I will introduce you to the old human custom known as the quickie."

* * *

It's been the better part of two hours and it's been quiet the whole time. There are only so many times a guy can walk up and down a corridor despite a gut feeling.

Malcolm is just about to hang it up and turn in when the door to T'Pol's quarter begins to hum heralding its impending opening. The sound gives him just enough time to turn the corner before the door opens.

If he didn't see it with his own eyes— well, it still doesn't add up. T'Pol isn't alone but her companion isn't Vulcan at all—it's Trip!


	17. Proverbial Vulcan

His brain is having trouble assimilating it. Trip was in T'Pol's quarters. The same Trip that hasn't shown up on the last two Bio-scans. The male in T'Pol's quarters was most definitely Vulcan. It's a pretty distinctive signature.

The only way to reconcile the facts is to assume that the scans are correct. The male with T'Pol is a Vulcan impersonating Trip, who is clearly not aboard the ship at present. Any way you add it up, it's not pretty.

Prioritizing that the first order of business is to apprehend the imposter, Malcolm moves quickly, launching himself at the intruder with his phaser drawn. The ensuing action is brief and confusing. In a few seconds, T'Pol has kicked the phaser from his hand and the look-alike Trip has him penned to the floor in a steel grip.

The strength of the one handed hold the guy has on his neck confirms once and for all that this isn't Trip. While Trip can take him down any day, this guy is stronger than two men combined. The pressure on his windpipe is making it impossible to breathe and even when the guy lets up to put some kind of weird squeeze on the side of his neck.

Looking up at T'Pol, Trip announces, "He's out. What did I do t' him anyway?"

As Trip stands, T'Pol kneels and checks Malcolm's pulse before speaking, "He's fine. You applied a prescriptive amount of pressure to a specific nerve leading to his spinal column thus, rendering him unconscious. It is a harmless but useful technique."

Trip shakes his head, if it wasn't for the last—oh ten hours—he could get really tense right about now. "So what other tricks do I have up my proverbial Vulcan sleeve?"

He asks the question good-naturedly enough, if just a little sarcastically. T'Pol takes his mood gracefully, feeling sure of his attachment to her. She tailors her response to calm his distress. "Given the skillfulness you have thus far displayed, you may well have acquired several more—talents. It remains to be seen."

Her matter-of-fact answer along with her veiled praise, surprise him out of his frustration. He had fully expected her to pretend that she had misunderstood his intent. Instead he feels her acceptance and her desire to help him through whatever he is feeling.

Coming to stand at his side, she bends her head close to speak to him in an almost conspiratorial tone. "He will awake in approximately eight to ten minutes, I would suggest that we be on our way."

Trip shrugs as he turns to head toward the turbo lift, "Ya' sure he'll be OK?"

* * *

They have just had time to take a seat at the conference table in sick bay when the Captain is hailed.

"Security to Archer, Security to Archer—I'm afraid we have an intruder on board, Sir. Masquerading as Commander Tucker none the less. I'm not sure what the joker has pulled over on T'Pol but they attacked me outside her quarters."

As soon as Malcolm pauses, T'Pol speaks up. Tilting her head toward the Captain, "If I may, Sir."

Looking uncomfortable, Archer nods in agreement, "Be my guest."

"Security, this is Sub-Commander T'Pol, please stand down. If you would join us in sick bay I would be happy to explain your—unfortunate encounter."

Incredulously, Malcolm answers, the mistrust in his voice coming across loud and clear, "Will do, Sir."

The minutes awaiting Malcolm's arrival seem to stretch out for all involved. Archer attempts to strike up a conversation with the Doctor to no avail and neither of them makes any attempt to address the two officers sitting opposite them.

T'Pol sits as straight and serene as ever, her eyes forward. Commander Tucker repeatedly shifts in his chair, displaying enough anxiety for them both. When the doors slide open, all release a collective breath.

Once Malcolm enters the room, he wastes no time despite T'Pol's directive that an explanation is forthcoming. Pointing his phaser yet again at Trip, he announces, "I am sure that this man is not Commander Tucker."

Frustrated with Malcolm's heroics Trip rises from the table, deliberately holding his hands out to his sides. "For God's Sake Malcolm, it's me. Can ya' put the gun up before ya' hurt somebody."

Trip's characteristic response plants a seed of doubt in Malcolm's mind. He lowers his Phaser but keeps it out—just in case.

Suddenly tried, Archer stands taking control of the situation. "Sit down, Malcolm. We were just getting ready to talk about what's going on."

Malcolm takes a seat, but still retorts, "That's just it, Captain, they're not Trip's bio signs."

With this comment, Phlox is drawn into the conversation; "They are now. There have been some—some alterations in Commander Tucker's neuro-chemical signal but I assure you, he is still one and the same."

As is typical, all at the table look toward Archer for direction. God, he'd rather be out fighting an insect Xindi with his bare hands! "Ahh, yes, so— well, Malcolm, we're all here because of Trip's bio scan. Something has happened to Trip—right now a lot of it's still classified."

Hearing this, Trip rolls his eyes—'a lot of it's still classified.' Still, you gotta give the guy credit for tryin' to keep his promise to give them some time.

With the classified comment an awkward silence descends. Jon looks at the table, Trip taps out a tune with his fingers, Malcolm looks dazed, T'Pol continues to stare straight ahead and Phlox looks as if it's movie night and it's just getting to the good part.

A slight movement on T'Pol's part brings the party's attention to her. Her gaze sweeps her audience before settling on Trip. He ceases his tune and looks up just in time to catch her eye. The two hold eye contact and almost imperceptibly her features seem to soften.

Malcolm finds himself drawing closer to the table to try and catch whatever is passing between the pair when it suddenly occurs to her that they were both in on what just happened to him in the hallway.

T'Pol is preparing to speak when she in interrupted by Malcolm's irate voice. "Neuro-chemical alterations or not, it doesn't change the fact that whoever took me down in Corridor C was not Trip. It couldn't have been. That guy was as strong as an Ox and he brought me down in a second. I don't mean to brag, Sir, but I'd like to think it would take Trip more than 10 seconds to knock me out."

T'Pol catches Malcolm's eye and something in her expression calms him briefly. "If I may explain."

Trip glances toward her wondering exactly what she is going to explain. Oh it's so simple, 'I incidentally hot-wired Trip's brain and well, we've been doing it like rabbits ever since.' Before she continues, she meets his gaze again and catches his curiosity over what she will choose to say.

"For some time now, Commander Tucker has been training in the ancient art of Vulcan Neuropressure. There have come to be a series of unanticipated, physical side effects from this practice."

Again she looks around the room before continuing, "As Dr. Phlox has explained it, in practicing the art with me, Commander Tucker's brain has conformed its metabolic functions to parallel my own. As with many forms of mediation, the practitioner strives to seek a transcendental state. I theorize that in successfully reaching this state, several physiological changes occurred in Commander Tucker. Thus, rendering his both his physical stamina and bio signs closer to that of a Vulcan."

Phlox smiles and nods earnestly at her comment, "Well put, Sub-Commander. I dare say I couldn't have said it better myself."

Malcolm leans forward with another comment, "OK, I get it—sort of—but what part's classified?"

T'Pol doesn't miss a beat. Gracing Malcolm with a condescending Vulcan stare, she answers. "That part does not concern you at present."

* * *

Still feeling that something is amiss, Malcolm follows up as promised and shifts several specs so that Trip's reading will track him as human even though anyone with half a brain would realize that his bio sign pretty much screams Vulcan male.

After making his programming changes, Malcolm runs another bio scan to make sure it's working. It's working all right but it's curious—Trip's bio sign—Vulcan or Human—is back in T'Pol's quarters—again.

* * *

"So where have you been?" Hoshi asks as Malcolm takes a seat across from her and Travis at the dinner table.

'OK, what to say? As much as he loves gossip, an Officer's order is an Officer's order.' "There was a problem with one of the overlapping arrays, I've been in Sickbay checking sensors the better part of the afternoon."

Malcolm breathes a sigh of relief for the accepting manner in which Travis and Hoshi accept his explanation and soon the conversation moves forward to other mischievous subjects. Just as he takes another bite of roasted chicken, Hoshi gives him a swift kick. Knowing Hoshi, he knows that she wants him to look at whoever just walked through the door.


	18. Waves Of Emotions

They wait until the end of the service hours to head for the dining hall. T'Pol has some water and fruit in her quarters, even a secret stash of earth chocolate but both heartily agree. They are famished.

And so, despite the desire to stay curled up for a few more hours and despite the emotional fatigue brought on by the afternoon's weirdness in Sick Bay, they agree to get cleaned up and meet at 1900 hours.

Prompt as usual, she is standing regally in front of dining hall doors when he arrives, his hair still damp from a hasty shower. He can't help but grin. She stands there all calm and peaceful but he can feel the waves of emotions peeling off of her like flames whipping at his skin.

He comes to stand all of six inches from her, much closer than a respectful distance for officers. She must crane her neck a bit to look him in the eye. The grin is still on his face as he addresses her with a slight nod "Sub Commander, shall we?"

T'Pol's non-verbal response consists of an expression he has come to think of as her non-smile. While her beautiful lips manage to not move. Her nostrils flare a bit and her brows arch and her eyes, well, her eyes—they sparkle like the stars out over the gulf on a winter's night.

Placing a hand on the small of her back, he steers her around, "After you, Darlin'."

* * *

Hoshi rises and waves to whoever has just walked into the dining hall. She is quite obviously gesturing for whoever it is to come and join them.

Great, Malcolm thinks. More participants for Hoshi's nightly round of what's up with Trip and T'Pol. The further they travel into the Expanse the more boredom and stress seem to fuel the crew's insatiable need for gossip and no pair has received more attention than the Captain's Second in Command and the Chief Engineer. Hell, he, himself, has engaged in several such rounds of good-natured speculation with Hoshi. Although he would admit that he is just as drawn to Hoshi's merry smile as the goings-on between Trip and T'Pol.

Still, recalling his most recent strange encounters with the pair—he feels his appetite recede. The thought of whatever is really going on between the two and his inability to say anything about it to his usual confidantes make him a little sick. The whole thing was damned fishy if you asked him.

* * *

T'Pol stops in her tracks so fast that he damned near runs right into her. However, their connection sure does help a man know what a woman's thinking'. He looks up to see Hoshi—and—Travis and—oh God, Malcolm. Great, just great. Lets' run the gauntlet tonight. He doesn't need to consult with her to know what she's gettin' at—it would be prudent to join them. Not joining the group might seem suspicious and given the lengths that Jon has gone to just today to respect their privacy the least they could do was not stir the pot any more than necessary.

After the slight pause, she makes her way to the table with him a step or two behind. She halts next to Hoshi. Her hands clasped behind her back, she tries for the relaxed Vulcan posture verses the ramrod straight Vulcan posture. As far as he can tell there are only two—a and b. This is b. He sends up a silent prayer to the powers that be that as of yet he has not succumbed to the Vulcan talent of looking like you're in front of a firing squad nine times out of ten.

She nods and directs her gaze toward Hoshi, "Greetings, this evening."

Hoshi eyes are dancing brightly as she takes in T'Pol and him. She moves closer to Travis, making more room at the table, "Hi T'Pol. We've just gotten started; come sit with us."

T'Pol tilts her head slightly, "Thank you. I will join you. Excuse me while I gather my portions."

She moves off without a look back nor did she answer in the plural. Good girl, he thinks. Now Trip is standing there alone with both Travis and Hoshi looking up expectantly at him. Only Malcolm is playing with his food.

Oh Dear God, he hasn't really given much thought to Malcolm. It's like all these pieces snap together all at once. Damn, the joker's really got him by the balls— he's witnessed Vulcanized Trip first hand, he's seen his altered bio scans—the same scans that came from T'Pol's quarters none the less! Great, and knowin' Malcolm, he's not gonna let it rest. At least Jon's order will hold him off a bit. Thank God.

Hoshi's sweet voice drags him up from his internal dialogue. "Well, Trip are you going to stand there all day or get some food? They've got sweet potato pie."

"Ahh, didn't realize—course' I'm gonna eat."

* * *

And so for the second time today, they are at a table with Malcolm. Trip mentally counts off the other places he would rather to be—with one in particular ahead of the rest. T'Pol has taken a seat next to Malcolm directly across from where he is sitting beside of Hoshi.

Hoshi and Travis are relating a story about two of the MACO soldiers while he sits shoveling in his mashed potatoes and roast beef. He feels like he hasn't eaten in a month but what a way to build up an appetite. The thought brings him to look over at T'Pol's plate. He notices that she has taken more than her usual share and for some reason the sight pleases him.

From T'Pol, Trip's gaze slides over to Malcolm. Malcolm. The guy is really under his skin today. And now he is sitting next to T'Pol. Looking so damned content after butting into his business today. As feelings of unrest, frustration and aggression begin to stir within him, Trip looses the train of conversation at the table. Slowly, his universe narrows to Malcolm and his sudden need to remove him from sitting next to his woman.

T'Pol feels the sudden increase in pheromones and emotions. Looking up from her salad, she catches the aggressive fire in his eyes. She realizes that she must move quickly if they are to avoid a second assault of the day on the Security Officer. And this one would not occur in the privacy of a deserted corridor.

She instinctively reaches out to Trip, covering one of his hands with her own. Making eye contact with him, she draws his attention away from Malcolm, away from his need to remove any male who could threaten his claim on her in any way—directly or indirectly.

"Charles. Charles, I feel your unrest. It is unnecessary. You know this to be true. Look inside."

Her voice has not only drawn Trip's attention but the attention of all of the other personnel at the table. T'Pol turns to address their audience but she does not take her hand away from Trip's own.

Again, she straightens and employs her most formal tone, "Commander Tucker is continuing to feel effects from his brain injury. Doctor Phlox has asked that I monitor his condition closely as he has prescribed a Vulcan treatment to address several of his symptoms." Something in her tone does not invite comment.

She continues as she stands pulling him up with her. "If you will excuse us." She takes care to make eye contact with each person until finally looking directly at Malcolm, she bows her head slightly, "Thank you."

As soon as the doors close behind them, not only their silent table but those around break out in heated conversation. Commander Tucker is still sick? What Vulcan treatment? Did she just touch him? Were they holding hands? Was he on duty today? Was she? What symptoms? And so it goes. Malcolm's head pounds with all the conjecture.

* * *

The walk back to her quarters seems to take forever—or longer. Trip's mind is a red haze. Only her touch guides him, keeps him grounded. In the turbo lift, she talks to him slowly but for the life of him he couldn't tell you what she is saying.

Finally, the door to her cabin slides shut and he falls on her like a madman. Pushing her up against the door, he pulls roughly at her garment as he devours her mouth, sucking at her full lips. Her hands help him in his quest and soon enough the offending barriers are out of the way.

The feel of her skin up against his own in the dark of her cabin, calms him a bit. He leans into her drawing in huge gulps of air. Her hands reach up to massage his tense neck muscles as he caresses the very tip of her sensitive ear with his tongue. For a moment, he manages to draw back a fraction of an inch.

"I—I don't know what came over me just now. I just wanted to rip him apart for sittin' with you like that."

Pressing her forehead to his, she shakes her head, "It is something that I should have anticipated. Vulcan males in blood heat are highly possessive of their mates. They have been known to even kill during such times. I should have insisted that we take our meal in my quarters tonight."

Before she finishes speaking, he is driving into her. She is as ready for him as he is for her. She takes him easily relishing the aggression of his assault.


	19. Addictive

As he lies next to T'Pol's sleeping form, he can't help but envy her a little. That she has found some rest, after all they've been through the past few days, is a marvel all by itself. If only he could fare as well.

He finds it a little ironic that insomnia is what originally brought him to this path. Well, hello old friend—Tonight, he is actually glad for it. He hasn't had a moment's peace to think, really think about this bend in the road. And he has always prided himself on bein' a man of action. Another wry thought crosses his mind as it comes to him that in many ways he's not the man he's always been.

It's hard to say what's altered him most. The obvious choice would be whatever you wanted to call T'Pol's genetic override. Hell, he'd always known he'd be whooped if the right woman came his way. And while this wasn't anything he could have imagined, it's kind of a package deal as he sees it. Ya' don't get the prize without the happy meal. It's a given.

No, it's losing Lizzie that's created the most jarring change. Along with Lizzie, he lost that optimism that everything would be OK at the end of the day. Now he was more likely to assume it wouldn't be OK. This fundamental shift in his psyche was left him a different man. A man he's not sure if he would recognize if he looked too hard.

The way he sees it, he wasn't much of anything but a ball of rage when T'Pol pulled him out of his grief. In countless old Westerns the Cowboy who is saved by the Indian owes the Indian his life or something like that. Maybe it's more like a get out of jail free card? The way he sees it, T'Pol only filled up the hole that was already there. It was hers for the takin'—or the fillin' for that matter.

And to be truthful, a part of him relishes the power flooding through his veins, the physical strength at his disposal. Even more addictive is the ability to connect with T'Pol, to thread through her mind over and over again, to be so sure of her love for him. Without that anchor, the anchor of her love he would truly be lost.

She stirs and draws his attention once again. In her sleepy state, she smiles up at him. He doubts very much that she even realizes it.

"Hi." He'd never heard her say that before either. Perhaps the overrides went both ways?

"Hi. Sleep good?"

"You have been unable to sleep?" She asks as she gages his level of alertness. "You should have woken me."

He shrugs his shoulders, "Not so much, but it's OK, I've got a lot to think about."

She pushes up on elbows, her action causing the sheet to slip a bit. God but she is beautiful.

"Indeed." She answers in that clinical way of hers—so incongruent with the sensuous picture she paints.

He watches her eyes narrow a bit as she too reflects. His pulse jumps and something in her expression acknowledges his sudden urge. "It is common for Vulcan mates entering an endocrine mating cycle to experience the physical compulsion to copulate as often as seven to ten times a day."

He leans in closer, his reply sounding more sharply than he would have wished, "Well, gee Honey, can ya' make it sound any more like a lab experiment? Hey, wait a minute did you say seven to ten?" As soon as the words come out of his mouth, he thinks better of them.

Patiently, she leans closer as well, "It is also quite common to feel a certain irritability or restlessness when one has gone a period of time without—without contact." Her eyes take on a smoky color as she continues, "I, too, am experiencing such a need."

"Sub Commander T'Pol, I had no idea that it was such a—let's say pressing need."

As he begins to nuzzle her neck, T'Pol finds herself enjoying the playful innuendo more than she would have previously admitted, "Commander Tucker, I commend you on your choice of words, it is a most accurate description."

Her attempt at humor is rewarded with a warm chuckle that seems to increase her need for him tenfold. This need is such that she is no longer in the mind to exchange playful banter. She feels the need to tear at his clothes and to taste his skin in her mouth. NOW.

As has been their pattern, the greater their need the more sensitive they become to each other. Without another word, Trip pushes her back unto the bed.

* * *

The morning cycle has begun again on board and Phlox is in the midst of feeding his Terrain Jumping Spider, when he's haled. "Phlox here, how can I be of service?"

"Doc, its Archer. I know you've advised against it but I need Tucker and T'Pol on duty—NOW."


	20. Away

Phlox shakes his head. He was afraid of something like this.

"Captain, I'd ordinarily advise against putting Commander Tucker and Sub Commander T'Pol back on full duty at this time but I appreciate the matter at hand. However, I would recommend that they not be separated as far as duty assignments go. The Vulcan psyche can be quite volatile at this point in the mating cycle. Perhaps in a span of another earth week their endorphin cycles will stabilize but now—."

Archer interrupts before he can continue, "Sure Doc, we've already covered the risks but compared to what we may be up against I'll take my chances."

"In that case, I can provide them with hyposprays that may alleviate some of the symptoms they may encounter if they are— unable to— to have— contact as often as necessary."

"I'll ask them to drop by Sick Bay before joining me in my Ready Room."

* * *

Standing in front of the observation window, Archer readies himself to hail both his best friend and his second in command. He is still having a good bit of difficulty wrapping his mind around the whole thing. If things weren't so disastrous at the present time it might just be funny. But in the midst of the expanse, any variable could mean the difference between life or death. His only hope was that perhaps the two would be stronger together than apart and given the strengths of the two already any further gain could tip the balance of power in their favor somewhere on down the line.

He mentally shakes himself before touching the button, reminding himself that it's not as if he's knocking on their door.

* * *

The shrill sound heralding the initiation of the comm link jars them both awake.

A rather awkward sounding greeting follows the sound.

"T'Pol—ah, Trip? Archer. I need you both in my Ready Room as soon as you can manage. Oh and stop by Sick Bay on the way, Phlox will explain."

The comm link goes back off before either have the chance to respond verbally. For a long second, neither moves. Finally Trip breaks the silence. "Guess the honeymoon's over." He quips as he springs out of bed.

T'Pol rises to stretch her arms over her head, another unbidden smile graces her lips. "Aptly put."

Looking at her like this—all soft and sleepy—makes Trip want to do nothing more than crawl back in bed with her but alas duty calls. He turns, finally heedless of his own nudity in her presence and heads for the shower. She notices that he is not returning to his quarters as he has done previously when he has needed something. It feels like a significant shift but she can't afford the time to reflect on its meaning.

Before she can ruminate further, Trip's head pops out from the bathroom door. "If we share the shower, we'll get out quicker." He says with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

Ever the straight man, she provides him with a suitable retort even as she rises to take him up on his offer. "If we share, I have no doubt that time will become an issue."

* * *

In less time than Archer expected, T'Pol and Trip enter the Ready Room. Both seem to be in better physical shape than the last time he saw them almost three days ago, he takes heart in the observation.

T'Pol nods slightly and meets his gaze without difficulty. "Captain."

Trip also seems more at ease, "Jon."

Archer finds himself relaxing at encountering their normal behavior. God knows what he had been expecting? He gestures toward the array of food on the sideboard, "I asked the chief to prepare some breakfast. I thought we could talk privately before the rest of the team comes in."

T'Pol nods and turns to gather her plate with Trip following suit. Soon both are seated in their usual spots across from each other at the Captain's Table.

The familiarity of the situation goes far to ease any awkwardness Jon is feeling. It comes to him that he has missed them. He acknowledges to himself that he has missed them both. He cannot help but feel a little left out. Yes, that is it—left out, like when you're a kid and all the kids get in a club but you. It's closer to that feeling than some sort of male jealously. No, for the time being, the Enterprise is his only mistress and no woman worth her weight—human or otherwise—would be willing to share him with his ship. Somehow the resolution of his feelings, paves the way for Jon to address the most immediate subject.

"It's good to see you both. You realize I wouldn't have called you if I had any choice in the matter."

Trip looks up from his eggs, "Sure thing Cap'n, what's the deal?"

"We are headed for an M class planet, we'll reach orbit in 3 hours' time. Hoshi has picked up some odd signals off the planet. She can't quite make out the language but there's enough there to link it to the Xindi. We need to go down and take a look."

Before he continues he swings in his chair to make eye contact with T'Pol. She's hardly said a word since they entered the room. "T'Pol, I need you to take command while Trip goes down with me and the away team."

Something flickers in T'Pol's eyes, it's so unusual to be confronted with T'Pol being at a loss for words. "If I may Captain, do you have an estimated time for the length of the away mission?"

Jon feels his shoulders tensing—he feared something like this. "If all goes well no more than a few hours."

Before T'Pol can continue, Trip breaks in, drawing his attention. "Jon, it's just right now's not a really great time for either of us. Last night, I practically belted Malcolm. We're just both— well, at least I'm a little off kilter. It's gettin' better honestly, I'm feelin' fine right now but—I couldn't tell you how long it'll hold 'til I start feelin'—"

Trip's impassioned plea drops off as he begins to blush. T'Pol picks up where he left off. "Captain, what—Charles is attempting to explain is that—as you are aware—we are both in the midst of a Vulcan mating cycle. When such a cycle runs its appropriate course, the effects in a well-matched pair are quite benign. However, when such a cycle is interrupted due to separation the effects can become troublesome at best."

Jon pulls back a bit from the table as both T'Pol and Trip lean in. This just can't be simple, he thinks to himself. "I understand what you are saying, I have talked to Phlox. He said the hypo-sprays should help. Look, I wouldn't give this order if I could see any other way. Trip, I need an experienced eye of the surface if we find any weapons—and T'Pol, I need you in command."

Both seem to accept his decision and draw back; however, Trip's face remains flushed. More conversation on the subject is drawn to a close when the doors slide open to admit Malcolm, Hoshi, Travis and several MACO officers.

* * *

From the Captain's chair, the world below seems small and nondescript. T'Pol muses on how her destiny has come to depend on the events now occurring on the little planet. She fights back the nausea that seems to come when she thinks about Trip. If she closes her eyes, she will be immediately submerged within a sea of memory and want. Thankfully, the hypo-spray has helped but she will undo the little peace it has given her if she continues on her current path. Straightening her back, she attempts to focus herself on the task at hand.

The away team is to contact the ship at 0800 hours. It is twenty earth minutes until the appointed time. Her mind drifts to a visit to the Earth city of Savannah where she saw a statue of a woman looking out toward the sea for her husband—a man destined never to return. She recalls thinking what a waste of energy—pining away for someone else while you are alive and present—how illogical. And now, now she understands the woman and her loss, her hope.

She breathes deeply and reaches out for the tie that binds her to Trip. She thinks of him as Trip although she has yet to let the word pass her lips. Charles, his given name, seems to better reflect her respect of him. She cannot feel his presence. It is illogical for her to even try at this distance but yet she does.

0800 hours—the time comes and goes. 0900 hours—that time come and goes. Her breasts and her heart feel heavy in want of him. 10000 hours and still nothing.

It is 1210 hours before a message comes.

"Sato to Enterprise."

"Enterprise here." T'Pol stands as if this will aid her in receiving the message.

"We split up into two parties to search the compound where the signals were coming from. I don't know what exactly happened but my party was fired upon. MACO Lt. Ross was killed. As ordered, Malcolm— he fired on the body so that— that the Xindi would not have access to a human body."

By now, T'Pol hears the distress in Hoshi's voice. As much as she tries, it is difficult not to cry out "Where is Trip!" but she holds her peace and listens.

"Malcolm and I made it back into the forest. There's some kind of dampening field around the whole place; the comms don't work until you are at least two kilometers out of range. It took awhile but we made it to the shuttle. The Captain and Trip didn't meet us as planned and we couldn't rise them. Malcolm has left to return to the compound. He asked that I stay here and hail you."

T'Pol is so quiet that Hoshi responds, calling for her. "T'Pol? T'Pol? Have I lost you?"

T'Pol's voice is quiet as she strives to maintain her outward calm, "I am here. Stay hidden and defend your position as needed. Be ready to take off if needed as well."

She hesitates before continuing, "And Lt.—Hoshi, Commander Tucker—what was he doing when you last saw him?"

"It's funny you should ask. He's was complaining about some hypospray that the doctor had given him. He said it wasn't all it was cracked up to be." Again Hoshi meets silence.

"That will be all. Thank you." Again, T'Pol again adds an irregular and unexpected postscript to her communication, "And Hoshi, be safe."


	21. Crumbling

How long has it been? Trip wonders. There's no outside light source so that doesn't help and with no tricorder—who knows?

He searches the darkness for Jon, realizing that his night vision is much improved. He sends up a silent thank you to Vulcans everywhere. He spots Jon still out cold in the corner. Tied up as he is, he debates calling out to him but decides to try to move closer to him instead.

Long minutes pass as Trip maneuvers himself to the floor and then onto his back. He rolls himself across the floor until he nears Jon.

"Jon, wake up!" He whispers repeatedly but nothing seems to phase him. Ruling out that front, he decides to pull at the cords that are binding his hands behind his back. Just when he imagines that he is making progress, he hear footsteps outside the door. He immediately rolls himself across the floor to the wall where he began.

Two humanoids enter the room. From his vantage point, all he can see are two pairs of muddy boots. He pretends to sleep as the two near him. His muscles poised, he thinks about what he needs to do. He thinks about Lizzie. He thinks about T'Pol.

The two seem satisfied that both of their captives are unconscious and begin to speak.

"The Xindi High Council will pay well to have these two humans. I have already hailed them with word of our visitors. By this time tomorrow, we will be rich men."

The other responds, "It is a good thing that we have hidden the humans here, we will not have to share the bounty!"

Both men laugh—pleased and sure of themselves. Their laughter spurns Trip to action.

In seconds, he has broken the weakened ropes holding him. Taking a small piece of the offending rope, he quickly loops the cord around one alien's neck and pulls. Pulls tight. The second captor rushes at him, but Trip pushes the now unconscious body at him, knocking him off his feet momentarily. When the man comes at him again, Trip is ready, his mind clear with what he needs to do.

Trip strikes the figure with his fists, over and over—releasing his fear, his anger—his rage. When the form finally falls at his feet, he doesn't bend to check for a pulse but rather picks up his Captain and settles him over his shoulder. Exiting into the foreign corridor, he is careful to close the door behind them. Perhaps it will buy them a little more time?

As he shifts the Captain's weight one more time, Trip opens what looks to be the door to the outside. He is confronted with another figure—hooded like the other two. He hauls off a punch with his free hand without thinking.

The figure staggers and then speaks. "Wow Trip. I'm here to rescue you! Don't kill me!"

"Malcolm? Oh God, Buddy—you OK?"

Pulling off the hood, Malcolm is confronted with double vision, "I think I'll be fine, going to have one hell of a hangover. I'll wait and give you hell when we get out of here."

And with that they make their way into the forest.

Even with the use of Malcolm's tricorder as a compass, the sky is turning pink by the time they reach the shuttle. As they head up the last steep hill, it occurs to Malcolm that Trip has been uncharacteristically quiet despite their dire circumstances. Typically, this is when Trip goes on the most. Secondly, it strikes him that Trip has been carrying the Captain's dead weight over his shoulder through tough terrain for the better part of three hours without so much as a whimper.

Malcolm adds these latest facts to his growing list of strange occurrences surrounding Trip. Still, this is no time to quibble.

The sight of Hoshi's sweet and very relieved face gives him the energy to get in the shuttle quickly. Even before they hail the Enterprise, they take off.

Hoshi has just finished contacting the Enterprise when a noise catches his attention. He turns in time to see Trip crumbling to the floor. It looks as if he is having a seizure of some sort. He remembers Trip speaking about some kind of drug. He assumes that's it. As Hoshi goes to Trip's side, Malcolm hails Phlox.

* * *

Phlox is already dealing with a call from Travis, regarding T'Pol fainting on the bridge when he is hailed by Malcolm. The news is not surprising. Dangerous—perhaps fatally so—but not surprising. He directs Travis to bring T'Pol to Sickbay and then informs a dubious Malcolm Reed that arrangements must be made immediately to transport Trip directly from the shuttle pod to Enterprise.

* * *

As they await the transporter beam, Malcolm kneels beside of Trip and attempts to reassure Trip as he continues to murmur and thrash. Only one word is clear. All that Malcolm and Hoshi can make out is "T'Pol."

Staring across the space that Trip previously occupied, Hoshi and Malcolm share a long look. Each slowly trying to fit together so many pieces of the recent weeks' puzzle. Trip? T'Pol? Malcolm's own recent close encounters leave him convinced. Hoshi suddenly feels at bit guilty over her recent speculation. Whatever is actually taking place, it seems to be serious—on several fronts.

Suddenly, it all makes some sort of absurd sense just as Trip fades out.


	22. Reunion

She has never experienced something so desolate, something so devastating. Her mind is so fractured that she cannot even begin to identify the cause of her pain. She is simply trapped in misery. She is dying, she knows this much. The pain, the loss of some integral part of herself is killing her.

* * *

Phlox rechecks T'Pol's vitals one more time as she lies on one of the beds in sick bay. She is conscious but not coherent and her body temperature is elevated by several degrees. Given her stats, he decides not to attempt to placate her system with additional synthetic endorphins. It simply goes against his better judgement.

Though, looking at her in such a state causes him to reconsider his hand in the matter. After all, he thought the pair would get along famously but here they are—both suffering incredible pain due to their connection—a connection that he, himself, had encouraged. Each was so isolated in his or her own way—it seemed that they could truly help the other—

He is roused from his contemplation as two Ensigns push Commander Tucker through the sick bay entrance on a gurney. If anything, Commander Tucker appears to be further gone than T'Pol as his body rocks with seizure-like jerks.

Phlox acknowledges to himself that he is certainly in uncharted territory at this point. Having already reviewed any possible approach to stabilizing the pair, he goes with his gut and quickly moves Commander Tucker directly beside of Sub Commander T'Pol.  
He reaches out to Tucker and is stunned by the heat he is generating. Whatever his temperature, it would surely cook a human's brain but alas, Trip is no longer human in the true definition of the word but some sort of Vulcan-human hybrid.

Shaking himself from his regrets and misgivings, Phlox takes Tucker's hand and places it in T'Pol's own. He clasps their hands together in much the same way that his Priest did at each of his weddings. Their only hope is for their systems to recognize the other and draw back from the brink of collapse. The cure is more metaphysical than medical in the strict sense of the word. But Phlox is humble enough to allow for the fact that the outcome is well beyond his simple art.

With one more squeeze of the joined hands, he quickly notes that Tucker has calmed a bit. Taking it as a sign of optimism, he turns. Once out he punches in a lock on the main door to sick bay. No one will be allowed to enter except for him for the next three hours. It is now up to them to save themselves.

* * *

Though his pain and confusion, something rouses him. It is a scent—an elusive but familiar scent. It pulls at him. It pulls him up through layers of incoherent restlessness. As he focuses upon the scent, other parts of his body begin to tense, to rouse. Slowly his focus shifts from the exotic scent to his heartbeat as it pounds through his erection. It is as if all of this pain and loss is now translated into one horrendous need.

His body does not seem to be able to respond in any way to provide him with release and still the scent permeates his brain. In frustration, his body tenses. He realizes that he is holding something in his hand.

Long seconds pass before something shifts into place through his fever. His mate, she is both his tormentor and his savior. Confusion reins, as he wonders why she will not come to him. Instinctively, his brain reaches out but no words come. Only raw need radiates from him.

She moans. The sound encourages him to fight on, to seek control of his shaking limbs so that he can claim her. Her hand leaves his own and he growls in protest.

He has no time to mourn the loss before he is rewarded with her return. He senses her own need and acquiescence. Feelings and desires as basic and primal as the messages he is sending to her.

She slides over his body to straddles his pounding erection. He struggles to open his eyes and finds her above him, grinding into him, her eyes closed, her dark hair wet with sweat. He cannot help but buck his hips up to meet her thrusts. She lets out a wild cry at the contact.

They struggle together on the small cot, each becoming more and more frustrated at the layers of cloth separating them. His want overpowers his physical weakness and he raises his hands to claw at the offending garment covering her sex.

His efforts fail to tear the fabric but his touch ignites her even further and she arches her back as she falls into orgasm.

As soon as she begins to come, her pleasure radiates out of her and directly into his own heated mind. Her pleasure triggers his own and despite the fact he is not where he wishes to be, he falls with her.

With their shared pleasure comes some organization to their thoughts, some small relief from their pain. He feels stronger, he feels ready to take her, as he desires, as he must.

In one swift move, his hands lock under her arms and lift her to a standing position as he stands as well. He pushes her backward with his body until she can go no further. Eyes open but unseeing, he brings his hands up to the neck of her garment and rips. Before the rags fall to her waist, he pins her body to the wall, his hands on her shoulders.

His mouth descends to worship her breasts—pulling, tugging, licking at her until her own arms push at the back of his head silently imploring for more contact. When he concedes and suckles her into his hot mouth, she comes again, her head falling back against the wall.

Once more, he shares her pleasure but fights against joining her, a part of his brain reminding him that he must be inside of her to plant his seed. As she catches her breath, he rips at his own clothes.

Soon enough, she is helping him. He lifts her against the wall while she is still pushing down his suit with her feet. Without further preparation, he drives into her with incredible force. Her body welcomes him, her heat scorching him. His release comes at once and he finds himself flying through her mind.

In tandem, their bodies slide to the floor. Hearts pound as sweat rolls off their bodies. It is as if a light has come on, a warm, all encompassing light. Speech seems too much of an effort—an unneeded effort, as they bask in a reunion of body and soul.

* * *

By the time Phlox has checked out the Captain, provided him with a detoxification treatment and given Hoshi and Malcolm health checks, almost two hours have passed. He has welcomed the tasks and has avoided checking back in with T'Pol and Mr. Tucker. Now, in his quarters adjacent to sick bay, he closes his eyes and pushes the comm button.

"Hello? Commander Tucker? Sub-commander T'Pol? Phlox here. Are you there?"

He releases a breath as he hears a response.

"We're here Phlox, but if ya' don't mind, will ya' give us another minute?"

Joy clearly evidenced in his voice, Phlox answers, "Most certainly, Commander. I take it, you are well? Is there anything I can do for you—either of you?"

This time T'Pol answers. "Yes, thank you. Can you please direct us to your additional store of garments, it seems that we are in need—of—our uniforms have sustained some damage."

With an even boarder smile, Phlox answers, "Certainly Sub-commander, third closet to the right of the last bunk."

Ahhh yes, perhaps he was correct after all.


	23. Epilogue

Try as he might, Malcolm Reed cannot erase the slight smile from his lips. As he punches in his deck on the turbo lift, he can't help but reflect on the evening's events.

He would have never thought—in his wildest dreams—Trip settling down—much less being happy about it—much less—much, much less with a Vulcan.

The Captain had officiated at the wedding ceremony that encompassed both Earth vows and a quite boring Vulcan oath.

T'Pol had been as cool and regal as always. But something about seeing her clasping hands with Trip seemed to soften her a bit.

This marriage was a lot like what he had found space to be—unexpected, pushing your boundaries, pushing you to places you'd never even dreamt of but despite all the misgivings, all the struggles—you end up stronger, more than you could have been otherwise.

As the door slides open, Malcolm sets his shoulders straight. He can do this, he tells himself. Hell, if Trip could, then he certainly can.

And with that final thought, he turns the corner to find Hoshi.


End file.
